The Marauders, and Other Nuisances
by fluidstatic
Summary: John Watson and Sherlock Holmes form a strange and sudden alliance after breakfast one morning at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.


John H. Watson sits eating alone at the end of Gryffindor table, picking at his bangers and mash, making faces at the thick orange stuff in a goblet next to his plate. He's just decided that pumpkin juice isn't fit for human consumption, and he should just take the next train home to London in the morning, when a swirl of black cloak arranges itself next to him on the Gryffindor table bench.

"You're wrong, you know." The voice is lazy and dark and startling. John jerks his head to look at the person who's planted himself there beside him, and is immediately surprised to see a blue scarf, bronze shirt collar, a cream-white face with shock-grey eyes. Or are they green. Or blue. John squints.

"Sorry, do we know each other?" he says, instead of _piss off_. He hopes the bloke will take the mickey out of him quickly and leave.

"It's clear from your haircut and the knot in your tie that you're a transfer from Durmstrang and not a late admission," said the boy. "At first I thought you must have a Muggle father in the army, but you're too quick to stand up for yourself under pressure to be the following type. You're not bothered by too much chaos, judging by the way you keep your feet on the floor when you sit. But from the way you've pushed your food round the plate for the past ten minutes you're a bit depressed." He licked his bottom lip once, cocked his head and continued, "I'd say it's a combination of by the relative lack of discipline at Hogwarts, and your regret at not having been sorted to Hufflepuff with the pretty blonde girl watching you right now. Her name is Rolanda Hooch, and she's gay, if you were wondering."

"Right," said John, too startled to be disappointed by the last bit of this extraordinary speech.

"Regardless of your discomfort, it's clear you're going to make a go at this," the boy remarked, after a polite pause where he he seemed to be examining John's reaction.

"Oh?"

"Obviously. There's a Slytherin standing by the door mocking you to her friends, and you've noticed her but you're pretending you haven't. Not easy to do, with that lot especially. Impressive. Also, I saw you help that first year Ravenclaw sort out her scattered textbooks when Pettigrew knocked her down a moment ago. Commendable, if a little sentimental."

John is unsure whether he's been complimented or skewered. "Um," he says.

"You're Godric Gryffindor's man, certainly," the boy concludes, and the corner of his mouth twitches. John can't help but note that his face is frighteningly angular, ungodly pale. "Don't worry about the pumpkin juice, it's dull and hateful and I don't drink it either. Ask the house elves to bring you pomegranate instead."

"I'm sorry, er... who are you?"

"Leave him alone, Holmes," the Gryffindor Prefect sitting a few lengths down the table calls, exasperated. "Shouldn't you be leaving for class?"

"Dull," the boy called Holmes drawls back, as if he defies the prefecture every day. "And I'm trying to be hospitable, Lestrade. I thought you'd be pleased."

"Just ignore him," Lestrade says in John's direction. "I'll see you in the common room later."

As Lestrade leaves, Holmes clears his throat, suddenly looking completely apologetic. His feline eyes round a little, and John thinks for a split second that the exotic eerie look of his face must have been a trick of the light. "Oh, do you like chocolate frogs? This one's got Godric Gryffindor's card in it, and I already have two of him. Consider it a, er, sorting gift." Holmes reaches into his robe and pulls out an unopened chocolate frog, presses it into John's hands. "Bugger, I'll be late for class," he adds, fidgeting importantly with his bookbag. "Ravenclaw common room is just below the astronomy tower; Password will be 'Alliterative Reference' until midnight." He lowers his voice and mutters "Visit if you like. I've got Fizzing whizbees and every flavor beans in my dorm. Stole them from the train. Highway robbery, those sweet carts. We can hijack a telescope and you can tell me all about Durmstrang. It must have been a right mess, and I want to hear about every second of it."

John can tell by the tone in Holmes' voice that this is less an invitation and more a demand of his time. He feels his eyebrows raise, but thoughts of stolen sweets, telescopes, and the remarkably fluent stream of this bloke's voice seem suddenly and deeply attractive.

"Blimey," he says, surprised at himself, and then quickly adds "But – thank you, I mean, er... Holmes, is it?"

He half expects the bloke to turn to the front of the room, point out a professor and say "That's my uncle," or curl his lip in disdain and drawl that _everyone _knows him. But he doesn't do either; instead the corner of his mouth twitches and he says, simply, "Call me Sherlock. Welcome to Hogwarts."

John opens his mouth to say something gracious, but Sherlock gets up from the table and dashes off with an impressive swirl of his cloak before he can think of anything suitable.

"Bloody hell," says a passing Hufflepuff girl breathlessly, pumpkin juice held halfway to her mouth. She looks a little pale.

"You all right?" John asks automatically.

"What? Oh, of course. I'm being, er. Silly." she blushes, sticks out her hand. "I'm Molly. Molly Hooper."

"John Watson. Nice to meet you," says John, and they shake.

"It's just... Sherlock never _talks _to anyone. Not like that," There's a hint of jealousy in Molly's voice.

"He seemed perfectly nice," John reasons, but the color rushes out of Molly's face again.

"He's not _nice," _she says, leaning toward him across the table as if it were some horrible secret. "He's brilliant, and mad as a Thestral, and _gorgeous_..." - her face turns the color of John's tie - "But, really, he's just _dreadful."_

John frowns. "How do you mean?"

"He's... well, you'll find out soon, I'm sure. Then again, maybe not. He _likes_ you."

"You say that as if it's a problem."

"Well, I've never met anyone that he actually _likes,_" Molly admits. "It's eerie."

John takes a last hasty bite of his stone-cold bangers and mash, and excuses himself. He'll be late for class at this rate, and he has no earthly idea where he's going. Walking as quickly as he can up the corridor, twisting his neck left and right trying to find a pattern in the crush of students milling about, he begins to curse in his head; why hadn't he asked an instructor for help, or that Lestrade bloke...

As he's panicking he runs bodily dead-on into a body several inches taller than him, immaculate bronze silk shirt under black cloak, blue tie. Then, that face sharp as a razor smirks down at him, and John feels he should have expected as much.

"John Watson," Sherlock says mildly. "Lost?"

John almost forgets to step off of Sherlock's foot, he's so startled. "How did you know my...?"

"Molly Hooper wrung it out of you. She does that. Lost?" Sherlock repeats.

"Right. Um... not quite," John hedges, "but I will be in about thirty seconds."

"What class?"

John tries not to look relieved. "Dark Arts?"

"Hm." Sherlock leans against a post and assumes a half-lidded, sullen expression, hands folded against his tie, as if he's just decided he hated the place and is praying for something to magically disapparate him. The crush of bodies around the two of them thins. John considers walking away when Sherlock doesn't say anything after twenty seconds, then forty five, then a minute thirty.

"Listen, er..." John begins at last -

"I find the new Dark Arts teacher tediously boring," says Sherlock in a rush, eyes still closed, "So instead I'm going picnicking in the forbidden forest."

John's eyebrows fly toward his hair. "Are you serious?"

Sherlock opens his eyes. "Oh, deathly so. Coming?"

Against his better judgment, John feels the crackle of rebellion shoot up his spine, and he's not entirely sure why. He's been a student for less than a day and he's already _gagging _to follow this enigmatic Ravenclaw halfway to China. What in all hell, he wonders, and the next thing he hears is his own voice from a short distance exclaiming:

"_God,_ yes."

"This way," says Sherlock Homes, and when he dashes off in another swirl of cloak, John has to jog to keep up. It certainly won't be the last time.


End file.
